


Sweet Arms Of A Tune

by thebicyclefandom



Series: Songfic Series [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Songfic, missy higgins, prepare to get sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebicyclefandom/pseuds/thebicyclefandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based on (and best read listening to) Sweet Arms Of A Tune, by Missy Higgins ( http://www.youtube.com/#/watch?v=sXm5dI-JWOQ&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DsXm5dI-JWOQ)</p><p>Art of this fic, thanks to the wonderful coulsons-hawk, here: http://www.coulsons-hawk.tumblr.com/post/38456255364/fic-rec-sweet-arms-of-a-tune-clint-natasha</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sweet Arms Of A Tune

**Author's Note:**

> Based on (and best read listening to) Sweet Arms Of A Tune, by Missy Higgins ( http://www.youtube.com/#/watch?v=sXm5dI-JWOQ&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DsXm5dI-JWOQ)
> 
> Art of this fic, thanks to the wonderful coulsons-hawk, here: http://www.coulsons-hawk.tumblr.com/post/38456255364/fic-rec-sweet-arms-of-a-tune-clint-natasha

Clint was the only one who knew she played. He'd caught her in a karaoke bar in Prague, five years before New York. (Missions were referred to by their location; SHIELD had a tendency for puns and acronyms that neither of them appreciated.)   
  
He'd heard her hum before, and even sing a little, but this was different. He'd followed her to a bar - he thought nothing of the sign proclaiming Karaoke Wednesday - but lost her inside. After a moment of searching he dropped gracelessly onto a bar stool. As he called for a beer, the guitar started, and he turned just as she started to sing.  
  
She'd changed into civvies, complete with wig, but that wasn't why he didn't recognise her. He didn't recognise her because for the first time, he was seeing Natasha. She wasn't Romanoff anymore - not all hard smirks and sharp edges and tight shoulders, not clipped tones and irritated reprimands. It was as if the Romanoff persona had melted, the ice queen demeanour slipping away.  
  
The girl on the stool was a stranger. It was like her bones themselves had changed, morphing her into something new.  
  
And the music! This wasn't idle humming; this wasn't a murmured Russian lullaby. This was all the emotions she'd locked up poured into words, into chords.   
  
The song ended and the spell broke and suddenly Clint made the connection. Natasha stood up, but the familiar Romanoff cloak was settling around her neck again, and as she walked off her face as blank as ever.   
  
She handed the guitar back to a patron, thanking him with an empty smile, and strode to the door, passing Clint.  
  
For a moment he thought he was in the clear, but she paused and he made the fatal mistake of ducking his head.   
  
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Anger maybe, or betrayal or even embarrassment. Instead, she simply regarded him for a moment, before stating, "Don't follow me again." She didn't look back as she left.  
  
He disobeyed. Of course he disobeyed. After every mission, he followed her. Milan, Perth, Dubai - somehow she'd find an open mic bar, and she'd sing. At first she didn't acknowledge him, although he knew she knew.   
  
Budapest was the first time they walked out together. They still didn't speak, but it didn't matter. It didn't have to be said; they both knew that she'd make an exception. Her warning was moot. She'd let him in.  
  
The first time they spoke was in Boston. It was only a discussion about getting a cab, but it was another step.  
  
By Kyoto, it was a routine. They'd talk and sometimes - just sometimes - she'd laugh and Clint would smile. Natasha was around more and more, with smiles and laughter, sometimes even sticking around until they'd reached their quarters; Romanoff would stay away for longer and longer.   
  
He stopped her just before they reached the bar. It was winter in Cairo, and surprisingly cold. She looked back at him in confusion, her cheeks and nose flushed, and Clint felt awkward and ridiculous. It didn't matter, though. Steeling himself, he placed a hand on the back of her neck and leant in and waited.  
  
Just when he thought he'd read it wrong and started to pull away, she met him. It was brief and sweet and chaste and over too soon and it didn't matter. She'd made another exception. She was broken her own rules. Even though she pulled away without a word, even though she didn't look back as she walked into the bar, he could have sworn she was smiling.   
  
She sang more cheerfully than he'd ever heard her that night.   
  
That, too, became part of their routine, until Clint had been assigned to a new handler.  
  
He never stopped following her to the bar, of course. But the kisses became less frequent, and he would fall into melancholy when she sang. Though her songs became more and more about him, she knew that his thoughts were no longer about her.   
  
Her songs soon resumed their longing tone, but Clint was too preoccupied to notice.   
  
New York happened.   
  
She sang alone that night. Clint hadn't left the hospital, and she knew that it was over. Perhaps that was why her guard was so low; or maybe it was because she was too used to Clint watching her back. Perhaps she simply didn't expect anyone to notice her black moods, or care. Either way, after her performance she stood to find for the second time that she had been followed.  
  
Tony's face was unreadable, which was worse than anything. If he'd openly jeered her, it would have been easier, perhaps. Before she could confront him, he'd gone.  
  
She thrust the guitar into the hands of its owner and left at a run. She dodged rubble and cleanup crew, searching, she had to find him, he couldn't tell, he couldn't -  
  
But he was gone.   
  
She was prepared for the worst, but it never came. No one mentioned it. She saw Stark several times, but he kept uncharacteristically quiet about that night.  
  
She eventually forgot about it, although she stopped singing.  
  
She was distant with Clint. She was distant with everyone. She locked away Natasha. There was only Romanoff, guarded, icy, unforgiving. The warm smiles of the former only existed in the memory of a man too distracted to notice their absence.   
  
When Stark asked her to move into Avengers Tower, she refused. When he told her that her things had already been relocated, she locked away the anger and filed a report against him. By the time she entered the building, she was as cold as ever.   
  
There were no boxes. Someone had already unpacked her meagre possessions, so the gift lying on the bed was obvious.   
  
She gingerly picked up the guitar, examining the curve of the neck, the cut of the body. Romanoff's expressionless mask wavered, like a ripple across her face, as she turned it around and tentatively strummed A minor.  
  
The chord rang out, sad but alive, and for the first time in months, Natasha smiled.   
  
She didn't notice Clint pausing at her door. She didn't hear him slide to the floor and lean back against the doorframe, didn't see him close his eyes and smile. She just sang, lost in the music and unaware of the tears on her face. Wishing.   
  
"Because sometimes every inch of you has been bruised and there's nothing left to prove,  
  
So hold the one you can't love in the sweet arms of a tune.  
  
Yeah, hold the one you can't love in the sweet arms of a tune."

**Author's Note:**

> If you tell me that every song on Sound of White and half the songs on all her other albums are not perfect for Avengers, you're LYING.
> 
> If you tell me that Missy Higgins is not a time-travelling fandom troll you are possibly telling the truth but I will continue believing that she is anyway.


End file.
